Roy Dudley A Taste of Hemlock 1

CHAPTER 1

   The morgue attendant took an inordinate amount of time in wheeling out the slab holding the sheet covered figure, the movement of the slab carrying an unpleasant taste of cold air and an antiseptic odor with it, an odor of death. The attendant stood at the head of the slab, an actor awaiting his cue.

   Mike Cassidy watched this performance with distaste. He had taken an instant dislike for the attendant, and this was of no help. The whole man irritated him, his theatrical manner, the long face with the unhealthy pallor, the sly and prying eyes, and the nose that drooped mournfully. Even the spatulate fingers offended his sensibilities.

   "Well, what are you waiting for?" Detective Sergeant Mallory growled at the attendant.

   The attendant's long fingers lifted a corner of the sheet, his eyes peering at Mike with morbid curiosity.

   Mike caught his breath and looked away, aware of the attendant's greedy eyes. The face under the slowly unfolding sheet was set in a mask hard to define. Happy Jack dead??it wasn't possible. He forced his eyes to return, to examine the face, the odd fixation of the features, the bluish tinge of oxygen starvation. Death had not been easy.

   "Well?" Mallory demanded.

   Mike didn't answer and resisted the impulse to glance at the attendant. One more look at that prying face and he might do something rash. Instead he took a last, long look at his friend, a final farewell, and turned on his heels, feeling empty. He walked past Mallory and his partner, the silent Sweeny. They fell in behind, following him across the empty room with its gleaming floors, antiseptic atmosphere and cold crypts. Happy Jack gone. Mike repressed a shiver.

 When they had reached the hall, Sweeny asked, "Do you know him?"

 "Why don't you get rid of that ghoul in there?" Mike asked, his voice thick.

   "Spider? He likes his work."

   Mallory's voice was almost gentle. "Was that your friend?"

   Was--is no more, was--a period, an end. "Is there some place--can I sit down?" Mike asked.

   He swung around almost savagely on the two detectives. "Yes. Yes, it was him. For Christ's sake, leave me alone."

   "Down the hall. Follow me," said the unruffled Sweeny. The room was old, the walls bare, paint peeling in multicolored layers, giving the room the mottled appearance of age and ill health.

   The ceiling, once white, was smoky gray, the gray relieved by lighter patches where the sagging plaster had been repaired, not too handily. A bare, frosted bulb hung from the ceiling on an ancient cord, furnishing a glaring light. Mike figured the location of the light was at the exact geometrical center of the room.

   Two identical desks, battered from use as foot stools, faced each other across an expanse of faded pine flooring. Each desk had a swivel chair, born to the same mother, and both were pushed back carelessly.

 Sweeny stopped at the desk nearer the far wall and rested one hand lightly on the surface, his attention apparently centered on the neatly stacked pile of papers occupying one corner.

   Mike halted just inside the door, blocking Mallory. Now Mallory brushed past him impatiently. The left wall held a door with frosted glass, a sign below proclaiming the occupant to be one, Lieutenant Olsen. Near the door, in the far corner, were two file cabinets, one new and fresh, the other a veteran of unknown wars. Chairs flanked the wall on the opposite side of the door, uncomfortable chairs, straight backed chairs, valiant chairs.

   Against the only window, just clear of Sweeny's desk, was a wooden bench with no back rest. The seat was worn smooth by the restless shifting of countless people as they waited--waited for what- The Venetian blinds were closed, shutting out the prying fingers of the sun.

   Mike crossed the room in quick, angry strides, the drab room rubbing the raw edges of his nerves. He yanked the cord regulating the blinds. They opened with a suitable clatter, exposing their yellowed inner surfaces to the sunlight spilling into the room. He stood there, his back to the room, staring blindly at the dirty window, attempting to bring his feelings under control.

   "Who did it?" Mike asked, his anger barely controlled.

   "Did what?" asked Sweeny.

   Mike swung around. "Killed him, you bastards."

   Sweeny's face didn't change expression.

   "Easy, son," Mallory said, red climbing his face. "Sit down for a few minutes."

   Mike slumped onto the hard bench and leaned forward, his head in his hands, moisture gathering in his eyes. Mike Cassidy crying. He swiped at his eyes with his handkerchief and blew his nose noisily.

   The silence was uninterrupted except for the whisper of a fan and muted conversation through the frosted door to the adjoining room. Mike stared at the floor, perversely studying the dirt caught in the cracks, the ground in discolorations from careless accidents with liquids.

   Sweeny's chair squeaked as he leaned back, a sudden eruption of sound. From the corner of his eye Mike watched Sweeny glance up in embarrassment and hesitate before placing his feet atop the desk. Mike straightened and clasped his hands behind his head, studying a crack in the ceiling.

   Mallory, opposite Mike, selected papers from an untidy stack. He moved them about aimlessly, sliding them gently across the dented surface with blunt fingers. His battered Irish face held an uneasy patience, one that threatened to disappear at any moment. "Who did it?" Mike demanded.

   "He drowned," said Mallory flatly.

   "Drowned?" Mike laughed hollowly. "He could swim like a fish. Where?"

   "Lake Washington," said Sweeny mildly.

   "He could swim across that lake with both hands tied."

   "Him and a girl friend," added Sweeny. "The boat overturned. He must have panicked."

   Jack panicked? Mike didn't believe it. "Who saw it?"

   Mallory leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk.

   "Sometimes the best swimmers drown," he said with forced mildness.

   "They become over confident and their muscles cramp."

   "Baloney," said Mike angrily, "Jack would never panic in the water."

   "People on shore saw it," stated Mallory, his patience wearing thinner.

   "What did they see?"

   "The overturned boat."

   "And Jack panic?"

   Mallory's voice rose a notch. "They saw splashing on the far side of the boat."

   "In shallow water too?" Mike laughed without humor.

   "Deep, shallow, what's the difference? It was over his head. Maybe he was stunned," said Sweeny.

   "The woman, who was she?" Mike demanded.

   Sweeny glanced at Mallory in resignation. "Janet Evers."

   "Who was she?" Mike asked, spacing the words.

   Mallory looked at the grimy ceiling in exasperation. "A local girl. Listen, we got a homicide case to work on, we can't--"

   "He was killed--murdered. Work on that," Mike said angrily.

   "Murdered in plain sight of land?" Mallory asked with heavy sarcasm. "Murderers don't--"

"Perform an autopsy, he didn't drown, damn it."

   "At city expense?" demanded Mallory.    "Are you claiming the body?"

   "He had a sister," Mike stated flatly, then allowed his anger to rise. "I'll notify her, but I want an autopsy. I don't give a damn at whose expense."

   "We'll wait for his sister," Mallory said with an answering edge to his voice.

   "Were there any bruises, cuts??"

   "Hell yes, there were bruises. We'll be the detectives, you keep out of it." Mallory bit off the words.

   "We'd like his name, his sister's name and address, and--" Sweeny began.

   "I gave you his name," Mike said angrily.

   "All right," Sweeny said, "you're upset, but give us some information. We'll run a check on him."

   Mike paused to control his irritation. "John Warren Ericksen, the Happy Swede--Happy Jack the Olympic swimmer. Twenty five years old.

   Born in New York City, the lower east side. He made his living swimming and demonstrating aqua lung equipment. He was a pro, he--"

   "His sister?" Mallory interrupted rudely.

   Mike paused and swallowed. "Mary Ellen Ericksen. Twenty two, blonde, works in a modeling agency." He gave her New York address.

   "Why was Ericksen in Seattle?" asked Sweeny.

   "Demonstrating equipment, what else?"

   "All right," said the unruffled Sweeny, "why are you here?"

   "I told you that--"

   "Tell us again."

   "Listen, you--"

   "No, you listen," Mallory snapped. "You want help, give us some details."

   "Just why are you so certain there has been a murder?" asked Sweeny.

   "Jack was a frogman in the Navy, an expert swimmer. He saw action in Vietnam. A small thing like an overturned boat wouldn't faze him.

   As a matter of fact, I doubt if he overturned a boat in his life. He was reckless except around the water. How did the boat overturn?"

   "No one actually saw it happen, but there was a large boat traveling fast. The wake indicated the large boat had crossed the bow of the overturned boat. Our guess is that Ericksen turned too sharply across the wake."

   "I won't buy it," Mike said stubbornly.

   Mallory opened his mouth. Sweeny forestalled him with an uplifted hand. "Why are you here?"

   "Jack and I grew up together, entered the Navy together and are--were close friends since we were kids. We planned an outing in the mountains on his next business trip west. Jack telephoned me to meet him at ten yesterday morning at his motel. He wasn't there. I checked the motel register and he had registered. I waited until afternoon, became worried and called the police to see if there had been an accident--or something."

   "What time was this?"

   Mike swallowed his anger visibly. "About two."

   "What's your line?" Sweeny asked.

   "Line?"

   "Business."

   "Engineering."

   Mike watched the two detectives trade glances and Sweeny's long face lengthen. That wasn't the answer they wanted.

   Mallory was in his early thirties, a terrier of a man of less than medium height. Shaggy and bushy eyebrows shaded blue eyes that had a way of examining a person that was curiously impersonal. His nose had been pushed aside carelessly in some long gone battle. Now he rubbed his nose reflectively along one side with a short forefinger.

   Sweeny's age was difficult to guess. He was tall, almost as tall as Mike, with a deceptive slouch. His face was smooth and pleasantly noncommittal, unlined and curiously like old parchment. An aquiline nose lent strength to a pleasant face.

   "You arrived by plane?" asked Sweeny.

   "American Airlines, eight-fifty flight."

   "Did Ericksen have any enemies?"

   "No, everyone liked him."

   "But you say someone killed him."

   "He didn't drown," Mike said stubbornly.

   "He had water in his lungs," Sweeny said.

   "Then he was unconscious when he hit the water."

   "Then he must have enemies. Was he into something shady?"

   "No."

   "His friends--were some of them close to the rackets?"

   "Hell, I don't know, he knew too many people."

   "Did he have a big prospect here?"

   Mike felt this was a waste of time, and showed it. "I don't know, I suppose so."

   "Did he hint at anything when he asked you here? Was there anything unusual?"

   Sweeny was like a bulldog with a bone, Mike thought in exasperation. Mallory had lost interest and pared his nails with a pocket knife.

   "He was excited," said Mike.

   "About what?"

   "About our trip, I guess."

   "What did he say?"

   Mike sighed in resignation and leaned forward. "That he had a good trip laid out somewhere in the Eastern Cascades. That we could pack in and no one would bother us."

   "Bother you?"

   "We like--liked the wilderness areas, no one around."

   "Where in the Eastern Cascades?"

   "I don't know, west of Brewster some place."

   Mallory suddenly snapped his knife closed. "He drowned."

   "Like hell he did," Mike shouted.

   "Shut up," said Sweeny softly.

   Mike wondered who Sweeny told to shut up. "This girl, who was she?" Mike demanded.

   Sweeny exhaled slowly. "A local prostitute."

   Mike digested this, not too surprised. "Independent?"

   "Always has been."

   "Jack's papers, where are they?"

   "We don't know," Mallory said testily, "if he'd had papers we'd have put the make on him."

   "The girl's rooms?"

   "Not there," said Sweeny.

   "You haven't found them?"

   "Hell, he probably had them in the boat. They're at the bottom of the lake," Mallory snarled.

   Mike ignored him. "You checked his motel?"

   Sweeny nodded. "After you called. Nothing there."

   "Only his papers missing?" Mike insisted.

   "Billfold, money, papers, business papers, no identification. Nothing."

   "He never carried his billfold in an open boat, too risky. He only carried enough identification to stall off the--to give him time to return ashore for the rest of his papers."

   "He didn't like cops?" Sweeny asked.

   "I didn't say that," Mike snapped.

   "Damn it, what??" Mallory exploded.

   "Shut up," Sweeny said, "both of you." He didn't raise his voice.

   Mallory subsided, but glared at Mike. Mike glared back.

   "His sister?" Sweeny prodded.

   "She's clean," Mike said.

   "You know or think?"

   "I don't know," Mike said wearily, "she always was. I haven't seen her for almost a year."

   "We'll notify her," Sweeny said. "We'll leave word at your motel so you can meet her."

   "That's it?" Mike asked.

   "We'll work on it," Sweeny said gently.

   Mike came slowly to his feet. He glared at Mallory as he passed the desk.

Copyright © 1998